Phoe

Chuubo's GMD: Love and Shattered Alchemy

"A... favor? W-well I mean, like... it's really not that big a deal, you know? Anyone would do this! Or, well, I mean, I guess nobody has, since you're standing there all... like this, but still! That doesn't mean I need a--"

Uh oh. That right there? That's trouble. That's trouble with a capital T. That's Trouble with mousy brown hair in just the tackiest ponytail. That is Trouble in the tackiest ponytail walking around like a fashion disaster friendship tornado comic nerd wrapped up in so many bad ideas even Rinley would go, "Hey wait a minute Dulcy I'm busy daring my new friend at this maid cafe don't you go bringing me into this hypothetical imagination whatsit!"

Although actually she would misspell hypothetical even though she was saying it aloud, but we're speaking in laymen's terms right now. In any case, Trouble.

"Aaaaa-te-te-te-te-te-te noooo? No no no no you go crawling right back into your danger hole right this second. Back! Back! Away! My cancelled plans are not allowed to walk up next to me right as I'm cancelling them! That's illegal! Worse than illegal! It's inconvenient!"

Dulcinea snatches Jasper's hand out of Shokyou's with a possessiveness rarely shown by her (or, that one time, by her evil shadow clone who went by Dulcinae). She manages to forcefully drag the scientific find of her lifetime a full five steps before her stupid jerkfaced jerk of a conscience crystal flies up and smacks her in the face.

"OW! What was that for, you... blue? BLUE?! What do you mean, blue? I'm guilty?! No I'm not! Ah! Uh uh uh uh, don't you flash at me, missy, or I'm taking you right back home to get recalibrated. Is that what you want? Huh? Guilty. Feh. Don't you even start with me you..."

Blue. Float. Stubborn crystal noises. The sfx team is out to lunch right now, ok?

"But she's annoying!"

Stare.

"You're gonna make me get the notebook out? Really?"

Staaaaaare.

"No, not The Notebook! Nobody has time for your weird references right now, conscience crystal! You know I mean the record of experiments that she's--" angry gesticulating at Shokyou, "wrecked! Do you really want to add another one to the list? You want that on your, er... my conscience?"

Blink blink!

"Yes I know I was literally on my way to see her just now! But that doesn't mean I w-- uuugggghhhhhh! Come on, you can't be-- I mean what would it hurt me to just this one time-- oh come on, that doesn't even-- no, they do not conflate! I know what conflation is, don't get lippy with-- fffffffffffffrrrrghle!"

She stops in her tracks. And hangs her head. Ok fine, she's feeling very guilty right now. That's not a fair reaction at all, or even an especially useful one considering the present circumstances in and about what passes for civilization around these parts. But three's a crowd, right? Besides, Shokyou's probably one of those "no rules in ramen" types who doesn't blink when she winds up at a sadsack chain restaurant dopily serving her soup with half a grilled lemon sitting on top.

...No really! It's a thing! Something not even nightmare science would dare concoct, yes, but even so it's been unleashed upon the world at least once! No amount of guilt is worth that risk! Besides, if she comes, this is gonna turn into some sort of romanti--

Dulcinea snaps her fingers. She throws a helpless look in Jasper's direction.

"Hey, so, I get a favor, right? Anything I want? That's cool. Then, as payment for my incredible selflessness and sacrifice, I demand you tell me whether or not I'm supposed to invite That Girl along."

Breathless Dead

The feeling starts in her chest. It's warm and it's wet, like someone snuck up behind her and shot her full of Ambrosia. It tingles as it floods through her body, down her arms and into her fingertips, turns funny in her stomach and threatens to bubble up into something fierce and terrible like laughter that would ruin everything if she let it out.

It sinks lower and deeper, slowing its spread even as it builds in intensity. It reaches hips and she has to bite her lip to keep from letting anything out. It pushes lower still, and becomes a fire. Her thighs clench. Her head buzzes. It is so warm. It is so wet. Her fur ripples in waves from the shuddering muscles underneath. Her skin tingles, and even the heavy, suffocating air in the room feels good where it touches her. Bella's fingers curl inward and clench tightly enough to draw blood from her palms. Even this feeling is ecstasy.

Her eyes, half-lidded and useless, find Odoacer standing across the room from her. In a blink, she's crossed the room and broken the intricate circles of hidden defenses with nothing but her own raw power. In a ragged breath, she's broken the admiral herself. Bella's indomitable glare and feral snare crush Odoacer's will like a rotting grape, and her ears fill not with the sounds of impending battle, but of sobbing pleas for forgiveness. Forgive her, Praetor! She knew not what she did! Forgive her, please!

She will consider it. But in another turn of her head she's back in a dark room on Tellus that's so heavily misted with perfumes that nobody save Zeus herself could enter and think clearly. But Bella is in charge. She is tall and strong and proud, and at her feet the Master of the Kennels is a quivering mess. The whip is singing beautifully in her hand, and his cries of pain are an accompaniment worthy of Nero's golden theater. His back is bleeding from thirteen different lashes and for once there's no vomit-inducing smell but just the rush of her blood and the feeling of the wave building inside of her again and lighting her on fire when he whimpers that it was his fault, all his fault, he called her 'worthless' but the word was really 'priceless'! She could not be sold because she was invaluable and irreplaceable! So please, please, please forgive him!

She does not consider it. With a step, Bella has planted her heel in his back and the Master becomes the bottom step of the staircase leading to the throne of Tellus. Bella's tail swishes as her hips sway with each confident step up. She would never dare do this, but today it feels like her right. Step by step, she ascends. Her body is drowning in that wet fire feeling, which drips off of her claws with the color of blood. Intoxicating. Good. Good! She reaches the chair. It is not the Empress she finds waiting there, but the Princess. Redana... Bella's smile splits her face and she pulls the Princess down onto her knees and it feels so good to see, yes that's right that's where you belong, good girl, now you'll--

All at once, Bella is brought back into the banquet and the feeling of tension and war. She lifts a hand to squeeze her temple and shake her head, without regard to how it makes her look. What was that? What was that? She shivers; she's found her insides again and they've dammed up the wave inside of her, but they've filled themselves with ice to do it. Was this the wine? Nngh, what did that bitch put in there? Bella snorts irritably and forces her eyes shut. Breathe, damn you! Breathe!

hhhhhhhhffffffffffff. Wine and and sweat and shit and blood and misery and stress. She holds it all on her chest.

ksshaaaah. She lets it out. Her mask slips back into place without any further effort. She is calm. She is perfection. She is ready.

"I'm glad you realize that," she says with no small amount of effort to keep her voice from shaking, "Don't fall behind."

She is coming, Princess. Your Bella is coming to bring you home.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

The Annunaki are, if nothing else, extremely solid. It's a trick of their physiology or something; their muscles and their bone structure are both very dense. It makes them tougher than their decadence would otherwise imply. It's at least some of why they think of themselves as so invincible. More to the point, it means it hurts a lot to punch one.

Marianne's sharp backhand across Jerioth's cheek sounds like a hammer hitting a cinder block and cracking it in half. Her grin, impossibly, grows wider when she sees the neck twist in surprise. She grabs a great handful of silk and jewelry gathered around Jerioth's chest to keep the sudden change in balance from toppling the useless cretin over (with all that hair, she'd never get her facing the right way again). She squeezes her other hand into a fist to hide how numb it is.

"That is how you command silence, tyrant dog. You were told to dance, and so you shall. There is no need for you to move your lips."

A phantom thief must dazzle. A phantom thief must seem capable of anything, at any time. And most importantly of all, a phantom thief must be cool. Tonight will ripple far beyond the job itself. They must talk. They must whisper at each other, look over their shoulders at every darkened corner and wonder, and in their dreams for weeks to come see the face of the revolution and the republic, whose name is the name of the people.

The eye on Marianne's forehead opens wide, burning like a tiny star. She stares openly at the heart of Jerioth ab-Ishtar, and judges her prey without words. Disgusting. But she must be motivated for what comes next.

Marianne jabs her hand down toward the ground, a useless gesture with no meaning other than misdirection. But beneath Jerioth, the ground is warping. Chains snake through the hidden paths, encircling their target unseen before they burst forth all at once like a furious hydra. She binds the neck with thick links like a collar, complete with leash. She wraps each wrist in turn and ties them both together with a short band that will allow for little more than vague wiggling or shuffling along on the hands and knees, which she repeats around the conceited brat's bronzed ankles. More and more and more, squeezing the thighs and binding the chest and encircling the waist. Marianne's fingers contract in another exaggerated command gesture and all at once the chains pull taut and pull Jerioth down onto her belly.

There is a gleeful sound of slashing, tearing fabric. Marianne's eyes are alight as she bends down and lets her mask chains dangle in her prisoner's face. She holds up several strips of what was once a gorgeous and perfect festival dress and waits with saintly patience for the inevitable scream. Her fingers fly down to snatch at that weak chin and hold Jerioth's fat and stupid lips held open.

"For such superior beings, you do not seem to have very good schools for yourselves. These were very simple instructions, yes. And even then, you failed to follow, yes! So now, lucky you! Marianne will teach you your missing lessons, yes yes!"

She shoves a square of torn fabric into Jerioth's mouth without a hint of gentleness. Then a second, then a third. Her smile is toothy, glinting, and more than a little evil when she sees the proud matron's cheeks bulging. You Annunaki love your excess, don't you? Then you must be enjoying this. Marianne pulls the final strip of dress taut and ties it between the lips. Her fingers drag slowly underneath Jerioth's chin, and then she rises and repeats the gesture with the toe of her boot.

"There, class is in session. Aren't you lucky? Now come along, today's lesson is a field trip, yes!"

She grabs up her makeshift leash and, with a powerful backflip, dives into and then through a corner of the hallway, dragging her "student" behind her.

Breathless Dead

The talons she wears on her front two fingers feel sharp and cold against her skin. She squeezes until she can feel the rush of her pulse against her hand. The sharp pain feels good; all the tension that's been welling up in her body finally has somewhere to go, and when she feels the wet trickle finally start to make its way down her cheek she sighs with audible relief. Her fingers go slack, and idly flicks them clean before she runs both hands through her hair to smooth it back down.

When she puts her hand on the priest's shoulder, she is not gentle. There's enough force in the clap to rattle the bones in his arm. When she offers a reassuring squeeze, she doesn't use any less pressure than she had just a moment ago when she was lost in her own thoughts. The silver talons tap an amused little beat on the fabric of his sleeve. Her bells are singing. She leans in close to whisper the council of a conspirator, a wicked smile growing on her lips. Her golden eyes are sharp and all-knowing, filled with the wisdom of a lifetime's worth of snubs and disappointments.

"What's the matter, friend? Why don't I see you gathering yourself for the charge? Are you somehow less insulted than our glorious brothers and sisters? Doesn't it wound your... mm, professional pride to see the Admiral blaspheme in front of the entire pantheon like this?"

She chuckles to herself, a rich and rumbling sound that's half a purr in and of itself. Her hand releases the priest's shoulder so that her fingers can dance their way down his arm.

"Don't worry," her voice drips with equal parts honey and malice, "I already know the answer. You're smarter than the rest of them. You've worked out it's suicide. Well. And you left your sword at your other banquet hall. So you, you're thinking of just sitting here nice and quiet-like while the brave young heroes pile up to meet your god. But the Admiral won't care that you behaved. I know her type: you may not be worth the spit Jas'o leaves on her boots, but you've made her list. Same as me. As soon as she gets word she's got the princess in her clutches, this banquet will end. And then, with all our guardians already dead..."

BAM! She slams her hand into the table. Plates and cups rattle three places on either side of her. Already her claws are digging into the metal as she curls her fingers halfway to a fist.

"Doesn't it make you mad? Doesn't it make you furious? She's snubbed you, and soon she's going to snuff you out, the bitch. All because she can't see a place for you after she's toppled the Empress from her throne. The arrogance! The cruelty... she won't even bother breaking out the clever tricks or kings when our time comes, because we? Don't. Matter."

Just ahead of the sacrilegious melee that's about to unfold, the air fills with the sound of screeching. The banquet table screams its own particular brand of agony as Bella drags her claws across the surface. The metal tears beneath their sharpness, sending little spiral shavings popping off and rolling onto nearby plates. Bella picks up her hand and flexes her fingers, and her joints do not so much as crack. Her smile may well have swallowed a canary.

"I know the way out, friend. I know the Princess. I know exactly where that little dunce is going to wind up before she gets here. I might even know a way to reach her before the lapdog does. And all you have to do is follow. Which sounds better, hm? Tell me, which sounds better? The Admiral's way? Or mine?"

There is a space exactly long enough to fit a single breath before her smile recedes into a full snarl. Her eyes shrink back into angry slits, and she drags the priest to his feet by the back of his collar before he has time to tell her 'no'.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

"Oh! Oh yes! Yes of course! It would be my great honor!"

The first step of the hymn is with enthusiasm! Stomp! The second step of the hymn is with devotion! Watch her hips rock rhythmically, like the coming and going of the waves! The third step of the hymn is... does anybody else hear those chains?

There is a great chorus of rattling and clinking beneath Étoile's feet, and the floor bubbles and warps just around the edges of her suddenly panicked footsteps. The Third Hymn of Our Lady's Power is forgotten in an instant and a sudden surge of chains and shadows rising up from the ground like a furious serpent. Matte black links wrap themselves around poor, silly Étoile's ankles; she squeaks with fright and throws her arms shamelessly around Jerioth.

"Oh no! What's happening, what's happening? Oh, save me please, save me do!"

And if her terrified, flailing little arms happen to wrap themselves around a certain necklace woven with protections, she can hardly be blamed for the coincidence. And what happens in the resulting tumble is anybody's guess. The chains are insistent. They wrap and they squeeze and they pull, and together the pair of them sink into the floor. The sound of laughter echoes in the grand room, as dark as it is amused. And then, all assembled are left alone with the knowledge they've just seen another heist by the dreaded Phantom Thief, Marianne.

Poor Celestine must be furious right now.

A floor below and who-knows-how-far down the hall, Étoile is yanked away from Jerioth and lands harshly on her butt. Not that there's time for her to do more than yelp to register the impact before she starts sinking again. The look in her eyes is pure terror. She wiggles helplessly, but sinks like a thief in quicksand. Or perhaps like a sinner, beneath the raging waves of the ocean, dragged down by the great weight of her own guilt. In any case, soon she is nothing but a vision of her perfect golden hair, even now begging to be caressed. And then she is gone.

Bonne nuit, Étoile. Bonne chasse, Marianne.

Her boot emerges from the wall first. It clomps down with malice, and drags a leg covered in tattered gray fabric out next. There is a rattling of chains. Around the waist, across the shoulders, singing the song of revolution against the percussion of a long, fluttering coat. Her hood casts a shadow over her face, but her eyes blaze so furiously that the elaborate loops of gold chainwork that make up her mask shine as brightly as they would in the plain day's sun. Yes, gold. All for her, a lowly human, to wrap herself up in and claim as hers before the servants of the gods themselves, dread fuel for the thing she claims is the power of her own soul. Foul, unworthy wretch. Wicked sinner, with no veil upon her darkened face. Her blouse flutters invitingly. Tauntingly.

She cracks her neck. Marianne revels in the moment and takes the time she can to loom over this Annunaki slave lord. She pulls the bright red glove on her right hand taut over her fingers, and tilts her head up so that her jaw is caught in the light. It may only be a trick of the light, but when she sneers you could swear her mouth is full of rubies shaped like crocodile teeth.

"Sycophants," she spits, "And tyrants shall march together to the same gallows. Tonight you are mine, little slave of Ishtar! You dance to my song. Let us see if you dance as beautifully as your pets, yes!"

She leans forward, and her face splits itself in half with a sharply predatory grin.

[Unleash your powers: 10]

Breathless Dead

And now the stench of blood is mixing into the bitter cocktail Odoacer is serving with her meal. What a vile, disgusting scent. Insidious, the way it seeps into everything, an iron-soaked tang that is nothing but acid and misery. Every tiny whiff that travels up her nostrils sends ripples through Bella's brain, activating instincts so ancient they predate the technology that gave rise to the servitor race by countless centuries. They're hunter's instincts: pounce, bite, tear, feast. Even wrapped so tightly around her leg, her tail bristles.

It gets worse with every breath she takes through her nose. But she dare not open her mouth; every time she has before, she's vomited. Her hand is sharp and deliberate as it sets down her fork. Her bell rings softly when she reaches under the table. She closes her eyes and clenches her jaw before she squeezes her tail past the point of agony, filling her darkened world with starbursts of white hot pain until she's dragged her palm across the length of it and flattened out the lush white fur. With equal deliberation, she lifts her hand back up and plucks her utensil off the table. She fills her mouth with this poor excuse for venison, and her breathing slows once more.

She is the only one in the hall to make no motions toward rising from her seat. She is the only one who spares less than half a glance at the Codexia. This is good. She must be calm. This is not a place of honor. It is a place of death.

Finally, she lifts her head. Her golden eyes sweep languidly across the many tables and note with fresh interest the names and faces she can recognize that are seated at each. All of these people gathered here right now are useful. Every one of them is a tool to see her past this stupid politicking. Her tongue glides across her lips while a pattern takes hold inside her. Which are predators? Which are prey? Who among them represent locks, and who among them keys?

It is not even worth considering attacking Odoacer herself. Every guard at the banquet, and a hundred more yet unseen are watching for that move. The first to try it, no matter which gods cling to their lips, will be the next to join King Anthi at the table of the dead. And whichever lucky idiot succeeds will be hunted to the edges of infinity by the Empress herself. It is suicide. No, worse. But several shit-for-brains heroes will try it anyway. It's inevitable, once the writing on the wall becomes plain enough for all with eyes to read it. This place will turn from worshipful feast to bedlam in an instant, and that will be her moment.

It will be a simple thing to slide wherever she wishes in the battle she smells in the air around her. She can gather allies, encircle whomever she needs to break in order to open up her line, and make for her real target before any eyes properly fall on her. After all, her greatest weapon is that she's--

Her fist clenches around her fork so tightly it snaps in half. Her whole body is taken with the rumble of her low, frustrated growl. The pieces bounce off the table and fall to the floor with tiny clangs nobody has any spare attention to notice. It takes her an overlong and terrifying moment to realize that her fangs are fully bared. She glances down, which is how she notices her hands are shaking so badly that she probably couldn't hold a spear, let alone throw one. If she even had one to begin with.

They sat her at his table. They put her within an arm's reach or three of disaster. They marked her as a dissident! And then... they left her to sit quietly, and eat. Her! Bella! Who even now is closer to their precious princess than any of them could dare to dream of being! She is a Praetor! The Empress' own hand amidst the stars!

And no one. No. One. Thinks. She. Matters. Not here, and not in all the wide and terrible universe. She raises one trembling hand to grab her temple, and snarls.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

"Oh! My deepest apologies, I'm just soooooooo very nervous! This is my first time gazing upon your most exalted magnificence, and I'm just, like, so overwhelmed? You're even more beautiful than I'd heard! And your voice is just, ooh! It makes my spine feel all tingly!"

Étoile giggles breathlessly and sways her hips first this way, then that, then back again. She reaches up with both hands to tug on and run her fingers worryingly through the tip of her ponytail while her foot continues twistly shyly into the ground. Every move is carefully chosen to emphasize her best features. Here she subtly squeezes her arms together to push her chest out, while her little foot twists constantly put her dancing pant legs in motion. And always her fingers draw her eyes back to her long, golden hair, which they have not let her do more than trim since she was purchased. If she were working on Her Ladyship, this is the moment she might touch a hand to her cheek, but without the intimacy bred by familiarity, that would be a bridge too far. She refrains.

"And your party! It's so amazing, the decor and the venue and the, oh! Oh! Something this grand could only arise from a mind as deep and sharp as yours, O Exalted Grace. And, and My Lady is my dawn and the beating of my own heart, b-but... I, I so rarely get to gaze on sights as wonderful as these. And as soon as I'm dismissed here, I'll have to as quick as I can back to her side. So I was wondering if you could just... not? Dismiss me? Just yet? Oh, I promise I won't take up any more of your precious time! You won't even know I'm here, I promise! I only want enough time to properly worship here, and I know My Lady would smile on me if she knew I did so by your leave!"

Ugh.

Even from all the way across the room, she can feel Celestine glaring at her (no, through her). Well don't you worry, crevette, big sister is at her limit too. There's a flame burning so brightly in her heart she won't be able to hide it for very much longer. She glances up, just for a moment, at the visage of Jerioth ab-Ishtar, her eyes sparkling with ditzy hope. And, a layer beneath that, a plan.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

When Étoile bows, she dips so low that her jacket flutters completely open and her ponytail flops down past her face to brush with the floor. She looks ridiculous flourishing her arms out so far from her when she still needs to hold all of her meeting materials, but she takes the time to do it anyway, dipping her right leg daintily behind her and holding the pose for an extra five seconds after she is given leave to speak.

When she stands, she doesn't rise slowly so much as bounce with a careless toss of her head that sends her ponytail arcing up and over her head again like an actress on the beach. It's the sort of touch slaves tend to be punished for, but that Étoile gets away with because her hair is such a natural shade of blonde the Annunaki barely distinguish it from their precious gold.

"Greetings to the Exalted Jerioth ab-Ishtar on behalf of Milady Tamytha ab-Marduk! She is soooooooooo sorry she couldn't be here tonight herself! Her consti... um... her, you know, the, um. She got, like, really sick? But she has bid me shower your exalted glory with praises in her stead! And extend the invitation to take tea with Her Ladyship at a time and place as matches your pleasure! She's really, you know, interested in collab...ing? With you? She was using a lot of big words I didn't understand, but she wrote them all done right here for you! And I've been instructed to offer samples of her recent work, some of which I'm wearing tonight! What do you think?"

She twirls on the spot three times, making her pant legs flutter like flower petals in a breeze and all of her paint and jewelry shimmer in the soft light of the chamber. She feels like such a ditz right now that even Caphtor would blush at her. She keeps her head dipped slightly at all times, stealing coy little glances at Jerioth's absurdly gorgeous hair, at her shoulders, at her legs, never daring seek her eyes or even her face. Her eyes sparkle with flustered delight to be in such amazing company!

But she's watching. Every shift in posture, every glare, every breath and how many turn into weary sighs or come with smirks. Is she roused, is she hungry? Is she guarded, is she enchanted? Is she already reaching up her hand to snap her fingers and carry Étoile to some side chamber to be whipped and spanked? She gasps and jumps as cutely as can be.

"Oh! Yes! May I hand over Her Ladyships gifts now? To which beloved slave should I let bring them to you? And... um... i-if it's all right, m-might I please have permission to..?"

She scuffs her foot shyly on the floor in front of her. And she watches like a falcon for the signal to strike.

[Pierce the Mask: 8 again. "How could I get her to lower her guard in front of me?"]

Breathless Dead

The bitter stench of cheap wine penetrates everything. The overwhelming scent of grapes and currants left to rot for two years in a moldy oak barrel swirls into the acrid tang of the mighty steel that made up the floor and the musty earthen musk of fur rugs mixes together into a truly horrific cocktail that threatens to follow Bella everywhere she goes tonight, into and perhaps even beyond the shower. There's more soaking into the floor here than there is in the bellies of the revelers, which is saying quite a lot. Bella wrinkles her nose and draws her feet up onto the support bar underneath her chair.

It would be quite bad enough without the sickening notes of bile and vomit dotting her breaths here and there, but by far the worst offense was the cloud of human stench left behind by the bloated monstrosity that had been the dining companion to her right, before he lumbered off to another table in search of 'better' company. Even now it lingered, so potent it had its own taste. A salty, vinegary sweat fighting a permanent war with the unholy stench of shit and rotting bits of... she did not want to know, the kind of stench you can only find on those so bloated even their servants can no longer wash them properly.

She raises her gaze up from the table to steal another glance at the view screen. Instantly her golden eyes narrow into slits as her vision fills with an altogether different horror: the corpse of the World Eater. Here and there twisted chunks of metal that must be several meters in length float by for long enough to obscure the view, but even then they are dwarfed by the impossible bulk of this titan of the void. The screen pans, or perhaps it doesn't move at all, and for a full thirty seconds there is nothing to see but the burned and pockmarked landscape of a single mighty fin. Now there are chunks of shell with cracks bigger than entire ships, now there is nothing but the rotting maw inside the great beak that seems even in its stillness like it might at any moment snap shut with enough raw might to tear down the walls of Tellus.

It is impossible to guess what color it might have been in its prime. Everywhere around is the flash of roaring engines of a thousand thousand ships and the angry burst of flak cannons that light up the graveyard like some sort of haunted memorial. Everything is lit in a pale shade of blue. Droplets of blood the size of Bella, maybe even larger, float everywhere in the empty space between ships: the last great gift of the World Eater. Years of floating in Poseidon's starlight sea have frozen them into huge blobs of crystal. Sapphires of such grandeur and purity that a single gem would embarrass the riches of kings float here by the millions, unmolested since the fall of the great best. Fear of the Armada. Fear of the Gods. Fear of the leviathan. Fear.

Bella's breath comes in sharp little sniffs. Her heart is pounding so hard she thinks it might be trying to escape through her chest and out her throat at the same time. The burning in her lungs is matched for agony only by the ravenous hunger gnawing at her stomach. The air in the room is as chilly as a winter's morning on Tellus; the soft white fur on her arms and legs is bristled so badly that it's destroyed her normal aura of elegance. She's a frightened kitten again, waiting her fate in the kennels. The chair is uncushioned. Her butt, her spine, and her legs all complain about it with different degrees of urgency, but she doesn't dare move except to shift her weight and wrap her tail tightly around her leg so that it can't give her away. Her tongue rakes across her sharpened teeth, and her mouth fills with the taste of blood. She doesn't so much as wince.

This is not a place of honor. Dotted across the tables are the crowned visages and absurdly purpled, feathered heraldry of a dozen different kings. In a calmer moment, Bella could name them and each of their precious holdings without blinking. Just now her head is filled with an angry buzzing that drowns out everything but her survival instincts. Each of them sits at the front of their own table, drinks more heavily than the rest, laughs louder, and to a man have their backs turned on the view screen Bella can't tear her eyes from for longer than an instant. Puffed up pretenders. Not a one of them has so much as set foot on the backwater hovels they're supposed to be ruling over, but Odoacer holds them in esteem today because their crowns are what make it an Empire.

A scrawny, terrified cat servitor with less than a hundredth of Bella's pedigree sets a plate in front of her artfully piled with cuts of venison settled amidst a fig sauce and a bed of vibrantly fresh greens and pine needles. The heat coming off the meat ripples the air above it into a tantalizing haze. The smell is so heavenly it threatens to set her to drooling. She restrains herself. She can tell before she tastes it that the recipe has been incorrectly prepared. After all, this is--

Her bells are chiming. Her ears stand on end and strain to catch all the noises she's not processing right now. Odoacer is making her speech, but the words are so much noise and hot air. Bella's arm trembles and chimes as she raises her glass in toast. She drains the foul goblet in a shot. She's six places from the left hand of the Grand Admiral's own seat. This is not a place of honor. She is seated with the malcontents and troublemakers, the Azura mercenaries in their bronze livery are the closest thing to desirable company she has. The rest are cut from the same cloth as her bloated flesh sack of a neighbor, or the thugs and self-styled hunters with delusions of grandeur. In short, those disgraceful wretches that need be kept close at hand. The servitor has cut her meat when she wasn't looking before melting into the shadows. No knives to be found anywhere at the table. This is not a place of honor. She is being watched.

Bella forces herself to eat. The meat is gamey, poorly prepared. It misses the juniper like Caligula missed the moon. It has not been drained properly in the slightest, and she has to keep pausing to keep the juices from spilling messily down her chin. Her eyes flash from plate to plate. She is the only one. This is not a place of honor. Still, it takes most of her restraint not to wolf it down like the animal they no doubt think she is. She has not eaten all day. She chances another glance away from the view screen, resolutely not showing her the only thing she wants to see right now. Someone has refilled her goblet. She drains it again in a pair of noisy gulps, giving in to the haze and the sway so that her body will slow down before it combusts.

The room is filled with chattering. Obnoxious prattling. Shouts, cheers, complaints, threats, praise, calls for more wine to spill across the floor. Bella's ears register only a single word.

Redana. How dare they say the name so casually. Redana. How dare they think her a prize worth winning. Redana, Redana, Redana. What makes any of them think she can be trusted?

Redana.

Her bells are singing with their jingling little voices. Eyes are burning through her. Too many eyes. There's a terrible screeching sound; the whine of metal yielding before a mightier predator. Bella's claws dig satisfying grooves in the table on either side of her plate. She turns her head away from the attention, picks her utensils back up, and demurely resumes her meal.

Masks: BABYLON MUST FALL

It's so hard to hide her wince. It's even harder not to glance around the room to catch all the eyes on her just now. But she mustn't. She must not. Oh Cellie, do you have any idea how much your big sister loves you?

"Am I... busy?" Étoile repeats with an exaggerated tilt of her head. She puts her hand on her hip, ignoring the offered drink for a moment. Her eyes smile vapidly, and she breaks into a loud, rolling fit of giggles, "You're so sweet to ask! Ah, I wish I were still a bright eyed student at the Academy so I would have time to properly enjoy wonderful party!"

Her eyes sparkle daintily as she trills with delight, so much that she almost stumbles out of line in her absurd sandals. Her silly pants swirl and tantalize with the motion; even at her ditziest, Her Ladyship has made her an object of desire. Étoile recovers with the smooth grace and humor of a slave that doesn't expect to hold her dignity for more than a moment at a time.

"But you know what would be even sadder than missing this grandeur? Failing to attend to my Lady! She has so very many tasks for me tonight, I shall hardly have time to give my report and scamper back home! Oh, but there is dusting, which is my favorite! Swish swish, be clean! Her Ladyship says I have magical powers! Where my feathers dance, the mantle sparkles! And after that I must draw the water for her evening bath and attend to her every need with respectful worship. That is also my favorite duty! And of course before bed I must rest my head in her lap to comfort her from all the hurts and weary turns of her busy day, prepare her evening honeyed milk, and sing her song that she may sleep soundly while I take my leave to prepare her meals for the next day! And then! Heeeee! I get to do it all over again! Is that not simply wonderful, fillette? You have so much to look forward to when you finally earn your collar!"

She reaches out and pats Cellie on the head, and her spell is sealed. It is easier by far to sell a performance like this when you take the time to smile under your veil. Not many people understand the way the empty turning of your lips can make your voice melt into such a useless, vapid wave of silly words. But it is essential. Celestine's safety tonight is counting on the acting skills of a Ravenelle daughter, and goodness knows 'Are you... busy tonight?' was not going to clear the bar.

She would apologize later, when there was time. But at least there would be a Cellie to apologize to.

[Mild Mannered: 8]